


Fancy Fucking Accents

by Kimba LionHeart (Kimba147)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Accents, M/M, Underage Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimba147/pseuds/Kimba%20LionHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave moves from Texas to England, where basically everything sucks. Until he meets John Egbert, that is.</p><p>-Discontinued</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

==> Dave: Experience rude awakening.

_“RINNNNGGG, RINNNGGG, RINN—“_

There is a loud crash as a shabby looking alarm clock explodes against a wall. This is followed by a barely audible groan that came from somewhere beneath red sheets, the comforter having long ago been kicked off.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are not a morning person.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t really matter, because you have somewhere to be this morning, so you have to get up. Not because you actually want to go, but because you guardian will beat the ever living shit out of you if you don’t.

So, you stretch a little, pop your neck, and crawl out of your safe haven of warm covers and into your surprisingly cold bedroom.

_‘Toto, we’re not in Texas anymore.’_

You strip out of yesterday’s boxers and throw on a fresh pair and don that god-awful thing that you are being forced to wear. Of course, your ironic anime shades are on your face right after that.

 _‘I guess it doesn’t look so bad,’_ you decide as you look into the cracked mirror propped up into the corner of your room. Still, it’s the principle of the thing that sets you off. You are in a white dress shirt, topped by a dark grey blazer with white lining (which you leave hanging open, rather than buttoning it up) and matching pants. You’re supposed to have a blue tie and loafers to go along with it, but you give up on the tie after failing to put it on three times (you never did learn how to knot the damn things), and it will be a very cold day in hell before you ever wear loafers.

Uniforms are a retarded concept anyway.

You walk out of your room, socked feet making no sound as you go to the bathroom and brush your hair, but not your teeth. You know from past experience that apple juice will be the only non-alcoholic thing in the fridge, and the thought of toothpaste combined with fruit really just makes you want to vomit.

You trudge into the kitchen, wondering where your Bro is. You grab a bowl of Frosted Flakes and some apple juice and sit down to eat at the itty bitty kitchen table.

Of course, your Bro shows up out of nowhere in mid-bite, but you’re so used to it by now that you don’t even bat an eyelash. You want to complain—tell him how stupid this place is, how you want to go home, back to Texas, where everything is a million degrees hotter and familiar. You want to tell him that the metric system is for pussies. But Striders don’t whine, so you just slouch a little more to let him know you aren’t happy about this.

“Get over it, kid. This is how it’s gonna be, so man up.”

 _‘Easy for you to say,’_ you think, _‘You didn’t have any real friends in Texas. Granted, I only had one, but still.’_

Damn, you missed the crazy bitch already. Even if the only thing she ever talked about was how the law worked, at least she didn’t speak with a fancy fucking accent, like all the pretentious pricks around here.

Your brother continues to speak, and you hear him strip away a layer or two of irony from his words, just like he always does when he’s trying to comfort you. You appreciate the gesture, even if you are still pissed about having to move for whatever job he’s fished up this time.

“England needs a good dose of coolkid. Show them all your Strider swag, and you’ll be ruling the school in no time. The Monarchy will have nothing on you.”

You just nod and get up, unceremoniously dumping your dishes in the sink. You brush your teeth, grab your tattered back pack with the ironic SBHJ patch on it and push on your red converse without bothering to untie them first. Then you are leaving without a word, because Striders don’t do long goodbyes. Even on your first day in a new school in a completely different country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to try something new. Basically, I was thinking to myself that John had stereotypical British buckteeth, which turned into John being from England, which turned into accents, which turned into Dave, because my headcanon states that Dave could never totally hide that Texas twang, no matter how hard he tried. I dunno how many parts there will be.
> 
> Also, please note that I have never been to Europe and I have no European friends, so all of this is random bits of fact pieced together from Google searches. If I've gotten anything wrong, or you feel I've missed something, don't hesitate to tell me. This also isn't betaed, so tell me about any grammar mistakes as well. Thanks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, finally edited this damn thing.

==>Dave: Take up bitter outlook on life.

“England blows  _balls_.”

This is what you keep muttering to yourself as you walk—Yes, WALK, apparently these people were too good to send a school bus your way or something.

You hadn’t really even  _seen_ anything yet—no Big Ben, no London Eye, no Leaning Tower Of What-The-Fuck-Ever. You’d been in London for like a week now, and you hadn’t seen anything except the airport, the inside of your shabby flat, and the grocery store a couple blocks down. Everyone back home had told you how awesome it would be, how exciting living in England was sure to be. But this wasn’t some retarded Amanda Bines movie, you didn’t have scones with the Royal Family and go shopping and sing songs. It was just another shitty place.

And it was swiftly climbing your shit-list, if your now aching feet had anything to say about it.

You have a general idea of where it is you’re supposed to be going, thanks to the hastily scrawled directions your Bro had stuffed in your bag. You aren’t sure who wrote this, because it didn’t look like his handwriting. But whatever. You were used to him bringing strange women home by now, and if they wanted to try and earn points by being nice to the baby brother, then good for them.

You’re sort of surprised it’d actually taken him a full week for him to find someone to sneak in while you were asleep.

You become aware of the fact that the small street (it was really more like an alley) that you were walking on is opening up into a bigger street, and you look up to find a shit-ton of people that all seem to be scurrying around and chattering with no real destination in mind. Meaning they all get in your way as you try to dodge around them to get to the cross walk.

So, you straighten up, don every bit of Strider swag you feel you can muster without melting the faces off of these European douches and do what you always did when something got in your way:

“Move.”

The guy in the cheap suit and the chick he’d been babbling British-speak at both jump about a foot in the air, like they’d never seen a kid before. Slowly, with shocked and slightly disapproving looks, they back up just enough for you to slip by.

You slide up behind the crowd waiting to cross the street and locate a couple dorks wearing the same stupid thing you’re wearing. They don’t seem to notice you, which suits you fine, since you plan on stalking them the rest of the way to this hellhole of a school.

You use your ninja skills to trail them, unnoticed, until you come to the obnoxious front gates of this pretentious-as-fuck school. Then you un-hide, because it will be hard to be the resident coolkid if no one can see you. You tilt you head in a way that you know will reflect the morning light off your shades and  _stride_ on by these British assholes.

Of course, heads turn, and people gape like they’ve never seen sunglasses in their lives. Who knows, maybe these poor bastards really haven’t.

You walk through the doors of a huge-ass building that kind of looked like a cross between a castle and a church. The word ‘pompous’ seems to fit this place pretty well.

The inside is slightly less snobby, and simply looks like a school, albeit a rather fancy one.

You find the main office, and walk to the uptight looking secretary’s desk. There’s a little plaque with her name on it, but you really don’t care enough to bother reading it.

“Yo. I’m the American transfer student. Where am I going?”

She just arches a drawn on eyebrow at you and stares for a moment before speaking.

“Welcome to Winchester Secondary School. In case you were not aware, we do not permit sunglasses indoors. And where is your tie, young man?”

“The shades are ‘cause my eyes are really light sensitive.” Which is kind of true. After so many years of looking at the world through tinted glass, you tend to prefer dimmer environments, but it certainly isn’t bad enough to be a legit medical thing. But she didn’t need to know that. “And I forgot about the tie. Whoops,” You add as an afterthought.

She narrows her eyes at you.

“What is your name and Year?”

“Dave Strider. I’m in 8th grade.”

"Do you have documentation confirming your, ah…eye condition?”

You rummage through your backpack (which she wrinkles her nose at) and hand her the letter from your Bro about your eyesight, which you had actually forged the night before. Not like he gave a shit. If they wanted to call and bitch about it, you know he’d back you up.

“I see. Perhaps you should find some less ostentatious eyewear in the future, Mister Srider.”

“I’ll get right on that,” You drawl. “So. Is there a schedule or something?”

“Yes,” She says as she turns to her surprisingly up to date computer. The computers at public schools back home were usually dinosaurs. (And there was another stupid difference—apparently a ‘public’ school here was really a tuition funded school, while ‘state’ schools were the ones funded by the government that everybody could go to. Which didn’t make any fucking sense at all. Why would they call private schools ‘public’ schools?)

After a couple moments of her just clacking away on her keyboard, she gets up and walks over to a big ass table with printers and fax machines and other pointless items on it and picks up some papers, hot off the press.

“Here you are.” She hands them to you and you tune out whatever it is she’s saying and take a look.

_David Strider, Year 9, Key Stage 3_

_A Days:_

_8:30 – Registration – Mrs. Wright, Rm 102_

_9:00 – Maths – Mrs. Clarke, Rm 208_

_10:00 – Science – Mr. Willson, Rm 223_

_11:00 – Break_

_11:20 – Music – Mr. Harper, Rm 117_

_12:30 – History – Mrs. Harris, Rm 303_

_1:30 – Lunch_

_2:10 – Physical Education – Mr. Hughes, Gymnasium A_

_B Days:_

_8:30 – Registration – Mrs. Wright, Rm 102_

_9:00 – Geography – Mr. Thompson, Rm 315_

_10:00 – Art – Ms. Taylor, Rm 120_

_11:00 – Break_

_11:20 – ICT – Mrs. Evans, Rm 205_

_12:30 – English – Mrs. Jones, Rm 212_

_1:30 – Lunch_

_2:10 – Religious Education – Mr. Cooper, Rm 313_

 About a million thoughts go through your head while looking at this convoluted piece of crap, but you only give voice to one of them.

“We have a religion class?” You ask, interrupting the secretary’s speech about the history of the school.

“Yes. You are required to take Religious Education through Key Stage 4.”

_‘That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard. You'd get the shit sued out of you for requiring that in a regular school back home.’_

She just keeps on talking, unaware of your inner monologue.

“I’ve printed out a packet about our school, and about the education system of England that should tell you everything you need to know. There is a page in the packet that should be signed and brought back to your Tutor Room teacher by tomorrow. Of course, if you have questions, you may return here during break and ask them. Now,” She takes a deep breath in through her nose, “Registration starts at precisely 8:30. I suggest you get going, if you do not want to be late. I am sure the other students will help you, should you need directions.”

You nod, and walk out of the office, wondering why English people had to make everything so fucking complicated.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter mainly to point out some of the extreme differences between England and the US. Now, I have never been to England myself, so I may have gotten some things wrong. I basically did some research and combined what I found with my own school experience (I’ve gone to some weird schools in my time.) I took a couple things out (mostly because I couldn’t tell if they were universal to all schools, or just the one I read about) and put a couple things in, but I think I got the general picture right. I thought it might be fun to educate my readers on some of the stuff that they do in England, since I basically knew nothing about this before now. It’s kind of fascinating. PS-Winchester is a real school, but I’ve modified it to suit my own needs. Basically, I just stole the name, and that’s all. Actual plot stuff next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to try something new. Basically, I was thinking to myself that John had stereotypical British buckteeth, which turned into John being from England, which turned into accents, which turned into Dave, because my headcanon states that Dave could never totally hide that Texas twang, no matter how hard he tried. I dunno how many parts there will be.


End file.
